Divorce Number Two.

I have just emerged from a two-day-long post-jol depression and have learnt two valuable life lessons:

1) If you really want to feel special, go on a date with your GBF, and,

2) Drunk people like to get really aggressive.

Seriously though, if you're looking for a pick-me-up, or even if you're not, get your GBF to pen you in for a night out - the benefits are bountiful - as I did with My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.

The fun all started as I was painted my face on while The Daughter was bathing herself:

The Daughter: Oooooo Mom.  Where are you going?

The Pant: I'm going on a date with Aunty My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.

TD:  Well, he's MY Aunty My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh so why can't I come with?

TP:  Because it's a date.

TD:  Well, it's not a real date.

TP:  It could be a real date.

TD:  But it's not a real date.

TP:  (How does she know this?) Why do you say it's not a real date?

TD:  Because Aunty My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh is a girl. Duh!

TP:  No, he's not. Does he look like a girl?

TD:  Well, no.

TP:  So?

TD:  But he buys the best shoes and even has piercings in his ears and anyway he's my aunty so he must be a girl.

TP:  But he looks like a boy, sounds like a boy and kind of acts like a boy?

TD:  So, he's a kinda girl?

TP:  I suppose.

Not much later, I was seated alongside one of my favourite boys in the world, swigging on warm house red, sweating in the balmy summer eve, engrossed in conversation in which I can only engage My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh.  We spoke of euphemistic terms for the common vagina, boys we'd like to see partially-to-completely naked, the ineptitude of government organisations, how disappointed we are in the fickle, pretentious gay crowds who, by assimilation, have gone against every grain in which they fundamentally believe. And how wonderful The Daughter is. It was the exact conversation I could not share with anybody else, least of all a real date with someone, well, for want of a better expression: less-kinda-girlish. He moved the hair out of my eyes, he told me when tiny bits of broccoli florets were stuck between my teeth, he offered to come pee with me (!). He even bought me a rose from one of those Tape-Aids-For-The-Blind ladies who are so laden with shiny crepe paper, and gaudy teddy bears bearing slogans like 'I LUV U' that they do not look dissimilar to a bus in downtown Delhi.

I swoon for him. Over and over again.

And just as our last respective morsels of food had been swallowed, out of the corners of our eyes descended upon us two elderly folk, who both had taught us at different stages of our schooling.

Woman Folk: You (pointing at The Pant) I know you. You went to Suitably Posh Private School.  Did you play squash?

The Pant: (wiping the red wine that had moments previous escaped nostrils) Good Lord no!  Look at me!

Woman Folk:  Were you in detention often?

The Pant:  Are you asking if I went to detention often? Or if my name was on the detention list?

WF:  Well, I took detention on a Friday-

TP:  Yes, I did wash your squash court walls once.

WF:  But you didn't play squash-

TP:  Nor any other sport, Dear. Unless you classify Painting Toenails In Bedroom After School as a sport. Because if you do, then yes! I did that nearly every day. Dutifully.

We engaged in the usual chit-chat that is expected of acquaintances of this nature:  'Did you hear so-and-so had a baby?' 'Shame, remember So-and-So? She died!'  But I couldn't help overhearing the strained conversation between My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh and Old Man Folk With Exceptionally Bushy Eyebrows.

Old Man Folk With Exceptionally Bushy Eyebrows: So how long have you known Pant?

My Future Ex-Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh: Five years.

OMFWEBE: And how did you two handle the year you were in Brighton?

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  It wasn't easy. But we got by. You know with Facebook and Skype and stuff.

OMFWEBE:  You must have missed her terribly.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Well, she is the panty of my heart.

OMFWEBE:  So, it's been five years now. When are you popping the question.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT: (with eyeballs dangling around his mouth) Ques-

TP:  Oh!  We've been thinking about but you know, with The Daughter starting at a private school, we're just finding it a bit tough on the old budget.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Yes! That's it! We totally can't afford it.

OMFWEBE:  Oh, I can imagine. Not easy being young parents these days.

TP: Young-

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Yes. Our love child. She's frightfully expensive. All the ballet pumps.  And extramurals. Killing us.

TP:  Yes. They really are. Which reminds me, I just paid for ballet today and she needed new tights and leotard - you know, the growth spurt Darling. So you're getting dinner.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Ah, the growth spurt.

TP: And anyway, we're thinking of having 3 more before we tie the knot, aren't we, Darling?

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  We certainly are *gulp*

OMFWEBE:  Well, if you're struggling with just the one, how are you going to cope with four?

TP:  You know, my little love-bum here is nearly finished studying (strategic stroke of the cheek).
Then he'll be a doctor. So we'll be okay. Besides, he's going to be a gynae - which'll certainly help with doctors bills.

OMFWEBE:  I thought you said you were doing a PHD in gender studies.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT: I am.

TP:  Gender studies: the polite way of saying 'Women's Plumbing'.

MFEHWHLTNDTACMIT:  Um, Pant, we need to-

OMFWEBE: Yeah, I'm going to- Er, Lovey, I think we should- Ah, ja. Listen it was good catching up and- But we've, you know, gotta go.

And just like that, my momentary bona fide relationship with a doctor was over.